Revolution of the Robin
by A Wish On the Moon
Summary: It's not that they don't love the old Bat, because they do. A lot. And just maybe a little too much. (They only cause him so much pain in the end.) And so, when the chance presents itself, they embrace it with open arms, wiping out the legacy of Robin long before it can come to fruition. Robin, the Bat, and all the things left unsaid. Multi-chapter.


Disclaimer: I lay no claim to any licensed characters or intellectual properties that were used in the making of this work.

* * *

_So twist Time's cradle, choke it until it bleeds, strangle it until it fades, and leaves everyone else alone…_

* * *

_Dead._

_(Deaddeaddead.)_

**_Dead._**

_(He's dead, dead and gone, and there's nothing that you can do about it.)_

And.

* * *

He's left, just like all the others. All anyone close to him ever does is leave, in the end.

Like parasites, they gouge into his heart and crawl into the holes they've left behind — latch on for years and years, never letting go — and always _tear**tear**tear_ at the scars, desperate to break free.

(It hurts _so much_, and he wishes the Bats could understand, _would_ understand, though he doesn't think they will fast enough.)

And.

And this time, he doesn't think he can handle it. Not anymore. Not after losing _him_, this little snot-nosed brat who's way too spoiled and far too angry, this someone that's felt like a little child he's had to raise, unknowing of the wonders and kindnesses the world could bestow him, this little bird that's been like another baby bro to him these past few months — this little robin that for all intents and purposes _is_ his son.

He doesn't think anyone really understands how much he's willing to give up, how much he's willing to let go of — how much he's willing to cast aside — to get him back.

(He'd throw away all of his sense and love and goodness if it means bringing him back — even if only for a little while.)

He'll break away from his friends and family, cross the line he's sworn to never cross ever since _that night _— kill and murder and steal for a life that should never have been snuffed out.

He's not thinking rationally, he knows — _gets _that he's emotionally-compromised — but, he can't bring himself to care.

(It's dangerous, he muses, teaching birds how to sing; sometimes, they pick up on things that they shouldn't.)

Timmy and Jaybird and Dami have all learned things the Bat wouldn't approve of — worse yet, from the best there are or ever will be.

Dick has, too.

(He just won't ever admit that he's delved _far_ more into his roots than he's ever let on.)

He's not Zatanna, not Raven — not Kor'i nor Estrigan, or even Klarion. Still, he'd like to think that he knows enough to be on par with the great sorcerers of his time, if not better.

(It's not that he knows the dangers, because he doesn't, nor that he knows the consequences, because he doesn't care, _can't_ care, **_won't_** care.)

He's listened and practiced and _unleashed_, bit by tiny bit, all the hatred and agony and pain he's suffered and confined within, hid behind charismatic smiles and utter control just so that the rest of the world can keep on moving, and destroyed all the good that's left of his Romanian heritage.

(It's just that he's absorbed the magic he's been in contact with for so long, breathed it in like air, and stored so much he's surprised he hasn't burst from the tingling, twisting — _throbbing!_ — pressure.)

Nothing but darkness and black magick remains.

* * *

_It had all ended before it'd even began; tick-tock, tick-tock, tick, tick, tick…_

* * *

Old wax candles circle the array he's writ (in blood — not chalk, not paint, _blood!_), burning and flickering in the shroud of darkest night. Shadows fade in and out, swelling and diminishing, in tandem with the rise and fall of the flames.

(_A lake of blood fuels the fire, and it feeds…_)

He's been in the graveyard, digging up Baby Bat bodies and piling up Baby Bat rags in the hopes that the kid's Soul _will_ find his Dami, and that the sacrifice he's paying — don't look, _don'tlook_, **_don'tlook_**! —will bring him back, be worth this backhand against his morals, be able to justify all of these murders, all of this shattering of reality…

(_Like Timmy's Supes did for Jason, like Jaybird's Ducra does for the humans, like he's going to oh-so-very soon_).

He's lit some incense and several herbs around him and Robin's — _ishestillRobin?_ — decaying corpse, letting the smoke fill his nostrils and the ashes cloud his senses.

(They'll need to be dull for what he's attempting — no, _succeeding_ —)

The robins he'd shot down this morning are wrapped around the dead Bird's chest by the chains of his escrima sticks, rotting and with wings clipped off and eyes sewn shut. Yet, even as he mutters the incantations, nothing happens, nothing changes.

Even the runes he'd painted on Dami's body remain unreactive.

(He knows the ancient tongue, has breathed it in since catching his mother practicing the arts all those years ago. Those _words_ on his weapons, these _scars_ on his forearms and chest and heart, that guttural _screeching_ escaping his lips — they're all _true_ magick, _old_ magick, **_powerful_** and **_strong_** magick.)

He's not worried about the rest of his messed-up family coming to visit. They've been put to sleep — _forget about it, forget, forgetforgetforget! — _(_at least it's not permanently_). In fact, he's not even outside Wayne Manor, but rather back in No Man's Land, back in a cemetery of the lost and forgotten, in the very place Talia killed her son in cold blood during Batman's run of Batman, Inc.

But, even if this is the spot, this is the place, this is where everything ended, and would begin again, everything feels off.

This is _it_, so…

(So _why_ won't it _work_?)

He thinks he knows what's wrong, but he pushes it to the side.

He's too afraid of the consequences of learning that he _can't_ utilize the more powerful Gypsy magicks, of learning that the myths are nor just myths and tradition — of learning that, had he been born a woman, he could've succeeded where his male counterpart will _always_ fail.

* * *

It's hours later, when the acrid stench of blood is becoming too much and the winds have picked up and blow, _hard_, nipping and biting at his life-drenched fingertips, when lightning crackles in the sky, when—

— when Dick can't see or hear or perceive the world he knows, when gunshots ringing and bo-staffs swinging signal the end of all his carefully-laid (_impulsive, so damn impulsive_) solutions, when the world won't stop echoing all of his _mistakes_ and _regrets_! —

It isn't until the spell spins out of his control and the shadows greedily eat away at his blood circle that he realizes what he's done.

_(And by then, it is too late.)_

* * *

_It had all ended before it could even begin, silence louder than any thunder, whispers louder than any words, glyphs stronger than any Man…_

* * *

_And. **Stop**. Rewind._


End file.
